Author's Note: This is a kind of strange little narrative poem that I wrote a few years ago. Stormy, overcast nights can have a strange aura to them.

Cold November The rain dripped down
On the dim but not yet dark world
There was an unreal quality
To the brownish-gray sky
And the plinking of a
Spontaneous downpour
It was such a night
In a surreal November
The air seemed colder
And yet empty, lifeless
Along with the rest of the night
The road sat empty
Waiting for the darkness
To settle in
But there was a shred of
Light that remained
The whole world seemed
To be waiting, to be
Standing still
But why? And for what?

TMK 11/19/01

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